The sun slid down the walls, tinting the vaults of the library with viscous gold. It smelled of wax, dust, old ink. Alexander and Boris leaned over the table.
Iron, salt, arable land, cattle - everything the land lived by. Everything one could rule with.
But there were no silver mines. Not a single line about gold.
Alexander did not hurry. His fingers slid along the edge of the scroll, as if it could reveal more than it held.
- Kiev stands on land, - quietly, almost to himself. - But if all we have is grain, what do we rule?
Boris did not take his eyes off the parchment.
- The land feeds. But power is not in bread. It's in the one who decides where it goes
Alexander gave a short chuckle.
- Merchants come where there is surplus. But we are in need. Where is the sign that it is worth trading here?
Boris slightly turned one of the scrolls toward him.
- Honey. Wax. Furs. Cloth. They take them. Not because they need them - because they want them. That is the sign
- Is it not too little?
- It is not about quantity. It is about what becomes a name
Alexander froze, then leaned in closer. His eyes glinted - not from interest, but from the work of thought.
- For a name to remain, there must be protection. Roads. Guards. Rules
Boris did not interrupt. Only nodded, as if confirming someone else's guess, not offering his own.
- And the boyars?
- If the merchant is afraid - no one trades. If the road is safe - trade feeds everyone. Even those who do not want it
Alexander raised his eyes.
- You think they will agree?
- Some - yes. Some - not at once. But everyone listens if they understand that silence turns into loss
- And if they do not understand?
Boris waited a pause.
- Sometimes it must be said twice. Sometimes - shown. Sometimes - say nothing, only take
Alexander looked away. His hand with the quill tightened slightly.
- Then we begin with the land. Then the road. Then - the silence of those who will be against.
- Better - their agreement
- Better, - Alexander repeated. But there was no certainty in his voice. Only calm resolve.
Alexander sighed.
- That you said well
- Because you heard me
Alexander handed the scrolls to Boris. He bowed his head, carefully folded the papers, as if he were preserving in them the breath of ancestors.
- If need be - I am near, prince
- Thank you. Go
- Good night, - Boris responded softly and left, leaving behind a silence that did not close at once.
Alexander remained alone.
He ran his hand over his face. The cold of the inkwell, absorbed into his fingers, seemed to remain on the skin.
The candle trembled. The flame - like a thought that cannot find its edge.
He stood. Went to his chambers. Without the clinking of boots - he had taken them off, like a duty.
He sat at the edge of the hard bed. His back - straight, like a warrior's. But in his chest - not armor, but burden.
- To rule... - he exhaled.
And the silence, as if waiting for continuation.
- Not to command. To hold
The phrase hung - not in the air, but in him. Did not settle. Did not dissolve.
On the contrary - as if clenched into a knot, hid itself, to later explode. Or rot.
He fell silent. And in that silence he understood: the fear was not in failing.
The fear - was in succeeding. And then there is no turning back.
Not to the sword, not to the road, not to oneself.
Only forward.
Only into the pit one digs oneself - step by step, and with each deeper.
He ran his hand over his face. Not sweat - a trace. Not washed away.
He rose. Returned to the table.
Took the quill. No longer a weapon. No longer a thought. An instrument.
A wedge imprinting will into the fabric of the land.
He wrote. Without inspiration. Without a surge.
Wheat. Craft. Bridges. Fairs. Thoughts did not flow - they were built.
Like stones. Like blocks. Like walls through which one cannot pass.
He wrote until he fell asleep right over the lines.
Not as a ruler. As a ploughman, collapsed at the boundary.
A trace remained on the pages. The wrist pressed into the paper - like a brand.
The wax took the imprint of his finger. It froze in it, like an intention that needs no voice.
It was not a signature. It was a statement.
He did not leave a mark - he became it.
Morning came late.
The candles had burned down. In the wax - imprints, as if words scorched without ink.
The prince lay over the parchments. His face - calm.
He did not merely rule.
He burned.
It was quiet beyond the door.
Mirnomir and Mstislav did not stir.
No one wanted to interfere.
Even the light - did not blind, but touched. Carefully.
Like one who has not yet decided - to be with you or against.
And in the mind - the face of the boyar,
who bowed too quickly.
As if he knew in advance.
And that troubled more than rebellion.
Because he had already become a prince.
But a man - not yet.
And beyond the horizon, in the Desht-i-Kipchak, where no walls are built, and power is measured by the blade - a decision was being made as well.
In the heart of the Horde - tension, like before a storm.
Khan Kara-Buran still held the reins. Still raised his voice. But the Horde - no longer listened. He was alive. But power - was not.
He could remain khan. To the end. To ashes.
His name still held part of the steppe - like an old rope holds a tent. But to it, they were already tying a spare. Quietly. Without words. Only with glances. Only with expectation.
He saw. He understood. And stepped back.
Did not surrender - yielded. Like a wolf, surrounded not by blades, but by silence. A wolf who understood: the circle had closed.
So the impossible happened - the choosing of a khan while the khan still lived.
But there was no choice.
Each clan - with its name. Each kin - with its fang. The elders spoke - but the words spread like blood through felt. They had gathered not to decide. They had gathered to remain.
The Horde was silent. But in that silence, teeth already lived.
Kara-Buran stood among those who just yesterday bowed their heads. And now - simply waited for him to leave.
His tent was still in the center. But the path to it was being overgrown by the steps of others.
He had not fallen. But became the first to be devoured by silence.
Then they remembered.
The law of the ancestors.
A khan is not chosen. A khan breaks through.
A duel.
Who remains - will lead.
Who falls - becomes the past.
Blood will decide.
And the names of those whose blood will lie - were already known.
Six sons.
The two eldest - Tukal-Bey and Kara-Tash.
After them came Sary-Batyr, a hero in the saddle, Altyn-Aidar, a master of intrigue, Kulan-Burya - fire without reins. And Tuman-Taichi - a shadow behind the shoulder. Young, but had never yet missed.
Today everything will be decided.
In the yurt, beneath heavy felt, Tukal sharpened his blade. The metal reflected his face - unfamiliar.
A week ago he woke up in this body. The poison should have killed - but he was born.
From another world. From the future. There he was broken. Here - no.
- How exhilarating this is, - he whispered. His finger slid along the blade. A smile - like a cut across glass.
The anxiety left. Euphoria remained. Here he was free. Without rules. Without judgment.
He could do all he had feared even to imagine in that other life.
- With this strength... I will become who I was meant to be. No one will humiliate me again, - his eyes gleamed. The light of madness - but clear
He leaned back. Gaze at the ceiling. Laughter - muffled, as if from within.
Behind him, among the rugs - the dead. Men. Women. Twisted faces. Slit throats. Blood had seeped into the earth, like the roots of his new self.
The smell - not stench, but ecstasy. To him - like the wind of the steppe. Free. Alive.
He sat among it all like on a throne. Not of gold - of death.
And in that blood was something that, for the first time, made him truly himself.
Targul-Arystan entered. Froze.
Tukal did not stir.
- There was... a misunderstanding, - he said calmly. - Altyn's men. Apparently, he realized the poison didn't work. Decided to strike head-on. Foolish. - He turned. - He underestimated me again
Targul looked at him as if for the first time. Tukal's smile - meek. But death lived in it.
- The duel is soon. Are you ready?
- Ready? - he laughed. - I am better than ever. Today they will learn who the khan is here
Targul hesitated.
- Are you still human, Tukal? Or already a beast?
Tukal looked at him. Without anger. Calmly. Like at a stone by the road. All was calculated.
- Just got a little carried away, - he said. His tone even. Without apology.
Targul paled slightly. In that cold blood - an abyss. Everything under control. Even madness.
- I understand, - he exhaled.
He knew: Tukal had become something else. But had not left. Who else could hold the beast, if not the one who had known the man?
And Tukal was already somewhere beyond.
He thought not of the duel. Not of his brothers.
But of the world. Of clay, from which one could mold. From chaos - order. With his own hands.
- Let's go, - he said. Rose. Took the blade. Walked out.
Outside - morning. The noise of voices. The scrape of steel. Shamans. Warriors. Elders. All present.
The arena awaited.
He stepped forward. The warriors straightened. No one moved. He did not look - he walked. And behind him flowed a wave. Unseen, but dense, like steppe dust.
His men - not merely guards. They had already chosen.
Closest of all - Sargul-Tengiz. His two hundred riders stood like part of the road. He himself silently ran a finger along his blade, brushing off dust.
- A sharp blade gives no second strike, - he muttered, not looking. But the whisper was heard.
Nearby, in the half-light of a tent, Bagatur Baga-Buki gave a slight nod. His hand slid along the woven hilt - a gesture not of defense, but recognition.
- That is how those who have already decided walk, - he said quietly.
One of his fighters stood nearby, silent. Only tightened the strap across his chest - a gesture of support, without words.
- And the Horde sees, - added another. The voice - almost a whisper, but heavy as a step.
A bit to the side, in the shadows - Baichora-Buri. His warriors did not move, but their blades slid over stone. Without words. Without excess. He watched Tukal walk - and did not avert his gaze.
Sagaj-Oglan squinted. Not from the sun - from premonition.
- The wolf does not seek a reason, - he muttered, almost to himself. - He senses when it is time to tear
The crowd parted. But not from fear - from understanding.
Tukal walked - like a storm. Like a sign. And they saw it.
- Today you will see who must rule, - he said. Quietly. Without a shout. But everyone heard, as if it were whispered into their hearts.
The wind lifted the edge of his cloak. Behind him, as if in response, the spears trembled.
The Horde knew. He - was not merely the son of Kara-Buran.
He - was the one who came to take. And to take to the end.
He was not afraid to lose.
He feared that victory - would not be the end. That the steppe, once it tasted, would want more.
And he - would not refuse.
Even when it was too late.
The arena awaited.
Thousands of eyes - and not a single one doubting.
His brothers were already there.
Kara-Tash - like a rock. Massive, motionless. Eyes - like hardened stone. Sary-Batyr - steady, calm. Already held his sword.
Altyn-Aidar, squinting, swept his gaze across the arena - not a warrior, a strategist. Kulan-Burya did not stand still - he trembled, stomped the ground. Tuman-Taichi, the youngest, was silent. Bow in hand. Gaze - focused.
They awaited one. The one who had returned from the dead. Tukal.
The body, poisoned, should have fallen. But he survived. Became something else. And they knew - one-on-one, no one had a chance.
So they persuaded the elders into a mass fight. All against all.
The arena - not a duel, but a hunt. But the hunt - for a predator.
Tukal stepped onto the sand. The brothers turned.
- You're late, - Kara-Tash threw. - Saying goodbye to life?
Tukal smirked. Lips - crooked. Eyes - colder than steel.
- Are you sure fate is yours, brother? It favors those who take, not those who ask. And I've come to take
He did not count odds. Did not compare strength. He knew: all he had was a grip that tore, and a body that never failed.
He was not one against five.
He was - against weakness.
On the rise, the shaman stepped forward. His voice - like the wind:
- Sons of Kara-Buran! Today it shall be decided who becomes khan. Blood - is not defeat. Blood - is the path to power. The path to eternity
Horn. Roar of the crowd. And - silence.
The brothers slowly began to close in. Surrounded him without haste, like hunters who knew: before them - not a beast, but trouble.
The crowd froze. A few exchanged glances. Someone flinched - as if to say something, but dared not.
In mass duels for the khan's saddle, they did not surround. They faced one-on-one. Always. So it had been. So it should have been.
But no one interrupted. The shaman - silent. The elders - motionless.
The duel had been declared. It could no longer be stopped.
Tukal was surrounded by five. With different faces, with the same fear. They did not look at each other - only at him. As at a beast that must be finished before it jumps.
The crowd still silent. But now - not from respect. From shock.
Some recoiled. Some turned away. One of the elders whispered:
- That's not what heirs do. That's what dogs do
But it was too late.
Someone already understood: if he wins - it won't be a khan who returns. It will be what survived the hunt.
By the tent - a boy shrank into the shadows.
- Will he kill us all? - he whispered, clutching a sleeve.
His mother did not answer. Only held him tighter.
As if that would change anything.
- Tukal, your hour has come, - Altyn-Aidar threw, not taking his eyes off his brother. - Together, we will end you. Only thus do we prove our strength.
- Then come. All at once. As you're used to - in a pack, - Tukal smirked, beckoning with a finger. His voice - cold. A verdict already spoken.
- Enough talking!
Kara-Tash charged first. His axe whistled through the air - and struck the ground. A column of dust.
Sary-Batyr didn't hesitate. Saber flashed - Tukal parried, sidestepped, blow deflected. The crowd gasped.
From behind - Kulan-Burya. In hand - a short saber, as if torn from a gust. He lunged - and the blade slid along the side, leaving a hot, tearing wound. Not a strike - a flare.
- Well done, Kulan, - Tukal exhaled, retreating. Smirk - like ice. - But you're predictable
Turn, elbow to the face. Kulan staggered. Blood - on his lips.
Tuman-Taichi released an arrow - to the knee. A cut. Second arrow - closer. Third - to the shoulder. Skin burns.
- You're shooting too close! - Sary-Batyr shouted.
- And you're too weak to kill! - Tuman snarled, firing again.
Arrows rained. Tukal dodged, but one lodged in his shoulder. Another - in the sand at his foot.
He did not stop. Pain - merely a reminder: the price will be paid.
He lunged at Sary-Batyr. Sabers clashed - sparks. The brother fought fiercely. But Tukal struck truer.
A blow. Sword knocked away. Blade to chest. Blood - to the sand.
- You were worthy, brother, - Tukal said hoarsely. - But it wasn't enough
In the crowd - someone coughed, too loudly.
They were silenced immediately - a hand, no words.
One of the shamans stepped back.
A horse behind the rope reared, as if hearing something no human could.
- You will not be great
Kara-Tash attacked again. Wide swing. Slow. Tukal ducked, grabbed the haft. Twisted. Sharp - sword to neck.
The head fell into dust.
- Not for you to decide, - he threw.
The crowd froze. Even the steadfast would have backed away. But Tukal simply raised his sword. Blood streamed down the blade. Eyes - on his brothers.
Altyn-Aidar did not advance. Waited. Watched. When Kara-Tash fell, he understood - the moment had come.
A dagger flashed through the air. Struck the side. Pain slashed, but Tukal tore the blade free and looked at his brother.
- You were always too clever for honest war, - he said dully.
Blood flowed. But he walked.
Kulan-Burya howled. A beast, not a man. Lunged forward.
- Better to die than to kneel! - a cry.
A blow - missed. Tukal grabbed his arm, kicked. Kulan - on the ground. Sword - to chest.
- You were never worthy
Tuman kept shooting. Hands trembled. Arrows - all missed.
Tukal approached. Grabbed his throat. Ripped the bow away. Broke it on his knee.
- You are still too young. - And struck. The end.
Women by the tents covered their eyes. Some - prayed, others - screamed. Men were silent. Even the shamans did not whisper - words were lost in dust.
One remained.
Altyn-Aidar.
Stood. Unwounded. But as if burned from within.
He did not tremble. But he didn't step forward either. Only looked - straight. As if still playing a game long since lost.
Tukal approached. Step by step. Not fast - but inexorable. Like a decision already made.
- You are strong, - said Altyn. Quietly. Without challenge. - But the Horde is not only strength
Tukal did not respond. Not even with a glance.
- Strength breaks, - Altyn continued. - And then comes silence. And if in that silence there is no mind - decay follows
He stepped forward.
- I do not ask for life. I offer sight. I have seen clans fall. Not from weakness - from pride. When one moved forward, and the rest - scattered
Tukal was silent.
- You do not seek a counselor, - said Altyn. - But one day you'll understand how hard it is to speak to emptiness. Even if it kneels before you
Pause. The silence did not ring - it smothered.
- You want to take everything, - he said. - But the steppe is not given. It is held
His voice was even. But it held an edge.
- You did not break me. I knelt by my own will
And he knelt.
Slowly. With dignity. Not for mercy. For the final word.
- Leave me. Not for me. For yourself
Tukal watched. Silent.
He saw Altyn's face.
Not fear. Not defiance.
Weariness.
The kind that comes after death. When the body still lives.
He remembered his mother.
How she looked - just like this. After his father's belt.
And for a moment...
No.
No "for a moment."
He gripped the hilt.
Then stepped forward.
- Blood is not payment, - he said. - It is the sign that will has been spoken
And he struck.
Like placing a spear at the center of the circle. So they know: this is his land.
Silence returned.
He closed his eyes. For a moment. Then - opened.
Around him - bodies. Brothers.
Blood. Sand.
He felt nothing. No regret. No pride.
His gaze slid across the bodies.
He did not remember who died first. And did not intend to.
They were his brothers by blood. But not by spirit.
He knew: the steppe does not forgive.
There is one rule - the throne demands blood.
And he had paid.
He would pay again. If needed.
The throne of kings always rests on bones.
He simply made the first step.
And no one screamed.
Because when the storm comes - they do not scream.
They bow.
So it was.
He was no longer a brother.
No longer a man.
Only the storm.
And it - now called him by name.
And the steppe - listened.
And in that call - was no cry.
But a command.
The steppe already knew what to do.
All that remained - was to say it aloud.
When the last sword slid through the air, and the final groan slipped from trembling lips, the steppe fell still. Even the horses stopped tossing their heads - as if they too waited to see who would exhale first.
The shaman raised the bone staff to the sky. His voice, sharp and shrill as a falcon's cry, rang out over the arena:
- Today the steppe has chosen a khan! The spirits have accepted the sacrifice of the sons of Kara-Buran. Only one is worthy to lead the Horde. Bow before Tukal - heir of blood and will!
Silence cracked. One strike of sword against shield. A second. A third. And suddenly - a roar. Steel. Hooves. Cries.
- Tukal! - someone shouted.
The name was picked up, carried through the crowd like fire through dry grass. Young riders galloped along the edge of the arena, raising their spears high.
Women by the tents sang songs - piercing, restrained. Some threw scarves - a sign of submission. Others pressed their lips tight, looking at Tukal as at a storm that had entered their home.
- Too bloody… - someone whispered.
- Strong, like the ancestors, - another answered, drowning out the voice.
The elder warriors blessed the victor. But deep in the ranks, one aksakal shook his head:
- A storm lifts the dust, and with it - the blood. Today he won. But can he hold the wind?
Among the crowd stood his supporters. Their gazes - firm. Their backs - straight.
- This day will enter the memory of the steppes, - cried one. - Khan Tukal will lead us to conquest!
The crowd came alive. Women echoed the men. But in the shadow of the tents, another voice, almost a whisper:
- Another bloody khan… Time will show if he becomes a ruler - or a flame, quickly extinguished by the wind
The noise did not subside. It became a song. A hymn. A recognition. A steppe that, for the first time, said: "Yes."
The elders did not approach.
They did not need to - they were already there. At the tent where Kara-Buran sat. On the rise where Kara-Buran sat. They were part of this circle. Not spectators - judges.
They had not intervened in the fight, but the fight had already heard their silence.
Arslan-Temir, elder of the Kiyat clan, stood with a straight back, as if he held the sky over the Horde's circle himself. His voice, when it sounded, did not demand - it declared:
- He remained. He spilled blood. But is that blood enough for the road? A khan is not the one who won. A khan is the one whose name will not be forgotten by horse, nor son, nor wind. The steppe listens not to a cry. But to a step that does not tremble
Jangar-Bulat, keeper of ancient traditions, did not look away from the sky. His fingers moved over a talisman as over wounds:
- Last night, the dogs howled. That is a sign. And today the smoke is flat - the spirits do not listen to it. The steppe endures strength. But it does not forgive those who take without giving. If he wishes to be khan - let him not drag the Horde. Let him carry it
Sarych-Bai, of the Sarych clan, leaned on a staff as if he himself were a growth from the earth. Eyes - dry, but alive. Voice - slow, like wind after death:
- The wind does not change. Those who walk in it do. Today he broke through. But the throne - is not dust. It cannot be taken. It must be held. Fall, even for a moment - and you are gone
The chiefs of the clans stood a little apart. Some - with approval. Others - cautiously. But all understood: this day was a starting point.
- We will follow him, - said Kaisar, a warrior with gray hair. - He is worthy. Let any who oppose say it on the arena
But not all spoke aloud. One aksakal leaned quietly to another:
- He proved strength. But does he have enough mind?
- Strength is wisdom, - the other replied, squinting. - In the steppe, they do not wait. In the steppe, they go. And he - went
Tukal's name rang louder and louder. It flew over the spears, over the tents, into the distance. And all knew: victory was not an end. It was a beginning.
And only one man had yet said nothing.
Kara-Buran, the old khan, sat on the rise at the edge of the arena. He had seen how it ended: blood - in the sand, brothers - dead, the Horde - waiting. His son stood alone.
He watched as the world he had built now looked to another.
The crowd fell silent. Those who had shouted Tukal's name just moments ago - hushed. Even the wind - stilled.
Kara-Buran rose slowly. Not like an old man. Like a beast too long lying in the sun, but still remembering how to tear.
Fingers clenched. Joints cracked. He touched the hilt of his dagger - but did not draw it. He stood.
It was not a gesture. It was farewell.
When he stepped forward - the steppe shuddered. Not from force. From meaning. It was the step of an era sinking into sand.
He walked without haste. But with such weight, as if each step struck the chests of those who watched. He did not demand eyes - he gathered them, like a reaper.
Tukal did not move. Stood like a rock. No step back, no lowered head.
Kara-Buran descended. The warriors parted without turning. They were silent. The horses did not snort. Even the children did not breathe.
He walked. Looking at no one. Only - at him.
The arena lay dead: arrows, blood, dust, sabers - all in disarray, like a field after the wrath of gods.
He stopped.
His fingers rested on the buckle - not like on metal, but on the past. One pull - and the belt slid down, slowly, as if deciding for itself whether it was ready to leave the body.
When it fell, the sound was not dull, but exact -
as if the earth had placed its signature.
The sand trembled - not from weight. From meaning.
- Take it, - he said. - If you know how to carry it
Tukal stepped forward. Bent down.
- No, - said Kara-Buran. - Not with your hand
He was not giving up the belt.
He was passing on the khan's saddle.
Tukal froze. Then - with his boot, by the edge.
Carefully. As if afraid to disturb the spirits.
A jerk - and the belt soared.
It did not just cut the air - it sliced the moment.
As if testing: would the steppe accept a new hand.
Tukal caught it.
Not as an object - as a circle.
As the closed will of those who ruled before him.
He fastened it - not on the body. On himself.
As one closes a chain. As one locks the doors to the past.
The click did not sound like a sound - it sounded like a sign.
The rite was complete. Time had acknowledged the new one.
Silence. Long.
Then - a strike. Shield. Sword. Second. Third.
And a roar.
- Tukal! - burst from the crowd.
The name crashed down. Like wind. Like fate.
But aside stood those who did not chant.
They watched. And remembered.
Before the roar of the Horde had faded, a rider moved from the khan's tent.
The horse walked evenly. No one barred the path.
In his hands - the Bunchuk. Not merely a shaft. A symbol. The axis of power. Passed from khan to khan. From era - to era.
At the arena, he dismounted. Without a word.
It was Kara-Buran's standard-bearer. He had led the army. Carried the banner in battles. Now - had no right to touch the shaft.
He stood before Kara-Buran. His hand did not tremble. But in his eyes - farewell.
The old man did not hurry. His fingers slid along the wood - as if rereading. Victories. Failures. Those who never reached the end.
And he took it.
Only then did he step toward his son.
The shaft was smooth from hands. Rough from wind. The horsehair trembled, as if it too knew: it was changing masters.
He held not an object. An oath. Power. The essence of the Horde.
- The belt gave you the right, - said Kara-Buran. - But this - is power
He extended the Bunchuk. Not to the hands - to the heart.
Tukal did not raise his hand at once. He looked - through.
He saw - how this shaft had been held by thousands. How men died beneath it. How under it they marched - not into battle, but into eternity.
He knew: if the fingers so much as wavered - the Horde would remember. And not forgive.
He raised his hand. Took it.
And the shaft - shivered. Not like wood. Like something alive.
Heavy - like duty.
Cold - like solitude.
But he held it. Without hesitation. Not for the first time. As if always.
And that "always" became visible.
The fires did not smoke. The air did not stir.
And then - a voice:
- Tukal! Khan!
And the Horde exploded. Cries. Roar. Spears raised. The name rose - like a storm that had broken free of command.
Shaman Temirkhan-Kulan stepped forward. Slowly, as if not with feet - with signs.
He was no warrior, but when he walked - even the steppe seemed to listen.
His face was hidden beneath a hood, his eyes sought no approval. They looked through. Through Tukal, through the crowd, through this day - into what had not yet come.
The fire by the arena - the one that, by ancient custom, served as witness - cracked. A tongue of flame leapt to the sky. The wind shivered, as if the air itself had chosen silence.
Temirkhan raised the bowl. In it - blood. Hot. Dense. Not like that of the living - like that of the world.
He did not hurry. As if waiting: what if Tukal would step back. Not out of fear. Out of awareness. But Tukal stood.
Temirkhan's fingers, stained in red, drew a line across the new khan's brow. Straight. Without tremor.
And the steppe held its breath.
This was not a ritual.
It was - recognition. Recognition not by men. Not by elders. But by something older and greater.
- Now you are not just khan, - he said. His voice - hoarse, but not old. - Now the Steppe will no longer walk ahead of you. Now it will walk behind you. You - are the Will. You - are the Storm
The old khan Kara-Buran nodded. And only now spoke:
- Five sons burned beneath the sun. One remains. Five voices cried - the steppe heard one. They - are carrion. Now the Horde - is yours
He said it calmly. Not as a blessing. As law carved into stone.
The elders hesitated. Aibars-Kutaga, gray-haired, face scarred like the steppe by wind - slowly bowed his head.
Another - followed. Then a third. A wave of submission passed - not out of fear, but understanding.
He - was chosen.
But not yet khan.
The belt and the Bunchuk gave him the right. But not true power.
Until the spirits answer - he was only a warrior who had won. Not a leader. Not a path. Only flesh.
By nightfall, the Horde gathered at the sacred fire.
By day - roar, blades, wind and dust. Now - silence. Dense, stifled, like before a storm.
The warriors stood without crossing their arms, without shifting their stances. The women - behind them, wrapped in fur, did not stir. Even the horses in the herd did not stamp. It seemed the whole steppe held its breath.
Steam escaped from mouths in clouds. In the firelight - like souls. Some caught them with their lips - not in prayer, but as a sign: farewell, or accept me.
At the center, by the fire - Tukal.
The Bunchuk lay before him. The belt. The clan's helmet. All - in dust. Not on a pedestal - on the ground. That's how the ancestors placed them.
Around - a circle. Shamans. Without faces. Without speech. Only marks on the skin: fat, ash, blood.
Kara-Buran stood beside him. But not as a father. As a shadow. The one who passes on. Nothing more.
The fire burned steadily. Without crackle. Dry. Like breath awaiting a command.
The elder shaman stepped forward. Raised his hand.
- Today we do not choose. Today - we are chosen
He ran his fingers along the shaft of the Bunchuk. Did not touch - read.
A second shaman brought a bowl. Blood. Hot. Not human.
- Without blood there is no power, - he said.
Wool - into the bowl. Into the fire. The smoke - heavy. Rose upward. Did not scatter.
The wind tilted the flame. Toward Tukal. No one stirred. But all saw.
Drum - one strike. Second. Third. No rhythm. Only weight.
A third shaman approached. In his hands - ash and fat. The knife's tip gleamed. He drew it across his forearm. Blood - into the bowl. Everything mixed.
Fingers - into the mixture. The shaft - sprinkled. Not sweeping. Precisely, center.
- The link is there, - he said.
The fire flared. The fabric on the shamans' shoulders shivered. Everything else - froze.
Tukal stepped forward. Took the bowl.
It - cold. Like the night before a storm.
Fingers - into blood. One gesture. A line across the brow.
Hot.
But he did not flinch.
The flame shot upward. Thin. Like an arrow.
The shamans did not raise their hands. They only watched. Everything had already been said.
And in the flame - faces. Without features. But recognizable.
The ancestors.
They did not come. They checked.
The fire died down. But the air - did not.
It became dense.
Like before a strike.
- The spirits have heard, - said Temirkhan-Kulan. - The khan is here
The silence held.
Aibars was the first to bow. Then - Buki. Then - all.
Last - Kutlug. He stood for long. Then bowed. Precisely. Without hesitation.
But not all.
At the very edge stood a youth.
His cheek - cut.
Eyes - dry.
He did not bow.
And did not leave.
He simply watched.
Long.
As if memorizing - not a face, but a moment.
No one called him.
No one drove him away.
Because that too was the law of the steppe:
some agree at once.
Some - with the first knife.
Tukal approached the shaft.
Took it. Without flourish. Without pomp. Simply - raised it.
And it did not slip. It stayed.
Now - his.
There were no words.
But the steppe understood.